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She asked me to write the biography section of her site. I’ve known this woman for roughly a month, so a biography seemed a bit daunting. Then I remembered that I also wrote an entry about time travel, then another one about me interviewing with the CIA, and told my doubts to shut the fuck up.

The last time I saw her I let her borrow my auxiliary cable for my iPod, and you know what? She gave it right back. That’s the kind of girl she is. Anyway, I wrote this entry for her site, but I think it’s pretty good on it’s own. So just read the damn thing, then go to her site and subscribe the shit out of it.

When Vanessa approached me about writing her biography section, I was a little leery–because she approached me in an alley and had a gun.

However, after talking it over with Vanessa, and roughly a half hour of crying into a mirror, I decided it was a pretty good idea. We decided to do an interview, a round table, a back and forth. We held our meeting at a lovely little coffee shop in Denton– just a hole in the wall, mom and pop place called “Starbucks.”

“Hello Vanessa, I’m glad you agreed to this public, well-lit location.” At this point, I’m still absolutely terrified by Vanessa Quilantan.

“No problem, Kyle. No problem.”

“So, let’s get started. Tell me a little about yourself and the site.”

“Well, in July I’ll be twenty. I’m about to move to Denton permanently with my best friends. I’m really excited to start my adult life, although it feels like I’ve been an ‘adult’ for a long time. Soon I’ll move out of my mom’s house for the first time–”

“THAT sucks.” I say.

“What sucks?” She asks.

“Moving out of mom’s place. I love mom. Lot’s of ice cream.” I rub my hands together and smile broadly.

“I…I want to move out of my mom’s place. I want to go out and be myself, not my mother’s daughter.”

“Vanessa,” I say. I’m going to try to sound intelligent and cultured. “Your last name–Quilantan, it sounds ethnic. It also sounds like a weapon that would be used on Star Trek. What’s the deal?”

She laughs and waves her hand at me playfully. I stare straight ahead and wait for her answer.

“…” I wait.

“…” She shifts uncomfortably in her seat.

“Where the hell is your name from?” Probably somewhere weird, I thought.

“It’s Spanish.” Yep. Weird. “I’m a quarter Spanish, a quarter Apache, a quarter Mexican, and a quarter Austrian.” I take a few moments to make sure her math is right. Then, finding it correct, decide to tell her about my own mixed heritage.

“I’m half white and half Caucasian.”

“Those are the same thing. White and Caucasian–they mean Anglo-Saxon.”

“Hm. That sounds smart. You must be smart, you’re on the internet. But please, go on– more about yourself.”

“In the fall, I’ll start college. I’m excited to be in a place that fosters creative thoughts. I want to spend my formative adult years in a place that encourages free expression.”

“Formative is a big word.”

“Mhm…” She pauses. “And really, I created the site to kind of document my progress and evolution as an artist.”

“Artists.” I roll my eyes and display a wry grin.

“Yes?”

“You guys are crazy. So kooky. Can we get cookies after this?” She ignores this question and takes a sip of her coffee.

“FUCKING HOT!” She screams. “Why the FUCK is this so hot?! I hate this god damn place!”

I cringe at her use of bad words.

“Hey, hey dude!” She points at the man behind the counter. “This is what I think of your coffee!” She then spikes the coffee like a football, inciting a small explosion of coffee at her feet. “AND IT RUINED MY FUCKING SHOES!” I was about to tell her that it ruined her shoes because she spiked it inches from them, but at this point, I was still scared shitless.

I show her a yellow clutch purse (Where did this purse come from?) and throw it into the parking lot. She chases after it.

“OOH! SO cute!” Vanessa yells as she prances out of the coffee shop. I lay a five dollar bill on the counter and walk away. As I leave I hear the clerk saying that our order was actually nine dollars. Turns out by “I’ll pay for it,” Vanessa meant she’d just take someone else’s order as the barista put it out. (I know what a barista is. Thanks, college!)

We finish our interview on the drive home. I’m driving because Vanessa has warrants out, like me. Mine are for parking violations. When I ask her what her’s are for, she just looks out the window and, half whispering, says “Loving too much, Kyle. Loving too much.”

Okay, that was not a shot at your manhood.
You were writing a biography for someone else.
I realize not an “auto” biography, but the thought crossed my mind.
And I knew your grammar HAD to be better. 🙂